


On Tour

by nonparlobaenay



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 4/5 gay, Angst, Band Fic, Basically a practice in using descriptive language, Bitter Liam, LIam's POV, Liam-centric, M/M, Mutual Pining, Perrie is NOT mentioned by name i swear there's like one sentence about her, Pining Liam, Poor Niall, Sad Liam, Touring, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension, maybe some Niall Horan x his fans if you squint, you can guess who doesn't have someone to hold, ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3526001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonparlobaenay/pseuds/nonparlobaenay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam mopes onstage, and spends his time analyzing his bandmates instead of entertaining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Tour

**Author's Note:**

> Not quite a drabble, but not a full-blown fic, either. Basically just a glimpse into fic!Liam's thoughts while performing onstage.

“Remember the stage gay—just enough forlorn looks and lingering touches to make the crowd scream! Treat each other like you’d treat your girlfriends!” 

Like your girlfriend. That’s funny, in a bitter way. “No one in the band has a girlfriend. But one is getting hitched.” 

The management rep trails off, frowning. “Whatever. You’re on in a minute.” His reply is a pattering of sneakered feet, four boys eager to please and one sour.

My bandmates are experts at their job. When we were grouped together they instantly found a mold to shape themselves into, each appealing to a niche for maximum profit. Cute. Flirt. Sassy. Bad. They all looked the part, no matter how much it sanitized their real personalities. But I didn’t know how to fit in the puzzle of lean, chiseled boys. I looked “too mature,” so I became the “responsible” one. The dullest member, inside and out.

Still, touring is an experience. Sweat drenches my hair and clothes, lacing my tongue with salt. Even through my in-ears I can make out the continuous, thankful shrieks. But it’s hard to react with genuine joy. The band’s been all across the world—enough to make the masses look the same. Though the audience is so pumped, so eager to be there, all the energy they radiate falls flat at my feet. I can’t say the same for the others, who flash by on the big screens behind me, their eyes and five o’clock shadow on full display. 

The cute one has his guitar, but chooses to skip cues so he can wave and point at lucky girls. He sucks their energy wholeheartedly with a metal-straightened smile, but his pupils are pinpricks. He’s insecure—can’t stand stepping out without dyeing blonde to the roots. Says it’s the only way to make his blue eyes stand out. He’s wrong. 

Next is the flirt. He shakes his body to the song, curls bouncing and a dimpled smile thrown in all directions. Sure he’s charming, but the only person he actually cares about entertaining is the sassy one, who grins smugly at the crowd-pleaser towering over him. They croon their harmonies together, one voice gravelly and the other silky. Mint green and arctic blue eyes meet and the crowd cheers. What they’re witnessing isn’t staged, and doesn’t last long either. The two linger briefly before heading to opposite ends of the stage, scared of being caught. We won’t reject the band mates we spend three quarters of a year doing promotion and touring with. They’re wrong.

The screens change one more time and it’s the bad one, soaking in the sensations of being onstage--tan body erect with arms behind his back, chiseled jaw towards the night sky and black quiff flattened by moisture. 

My ears ring with the audience’s sensory overload, and onscreen his warm whiskey eyes shine through their lashes with pleasure. He knows what he can do to people, especially the one he calls his “best friend.” Me. Distracted, I bump into him and fall back towards the edge of the stage.

He stops me. Sweaty fingers clamp onto my arms and pull back. He gives me a worried glance and leans in slowly, lips brushing against my ears with a husky whisper of, “We can’t be anything more than stage gay.”

The crowd's cries are loud enough to water my eyes, and he backs away to stand by me. It’s our cue. Coming up is another harmony, “responsible” and bad together. On the last note my falsetto wavers, drowned out by his soulful note. Two sets of eyes meet. He doesn’t see the want buried under my dull browns, but I can see the regret in his.

His irises don’t spark the same way; pupils don’t grow the same way to his fiancée the way they do to me. He’s too selfless, says his true feelings will break our bond and the band itself. He’s wrong, and knows it.

My bandmates are experts at the job. They’ve perfected their two-dimensional figures enough to hide behind them: cute, flirt, sassy, bad. I’m “responsible,” and I feel it every day.


End file.
